The Alchemist's Daughter

by Mary Lawrence

  She stood a moment, wielding her pot of water and willing her jittery heart to quiet. She’d been in dire straits before, but her present circumstances unnerved her in a way she’d never expected. Her best friend was dead, and the loss left her feeling sorry and alone. She had always overcome obstacles in the past, but this grief was not easy to manage. It settled in the pit of her stomach like an immovable weight. She knew she couldn’t ignore her feelings, but she needed to tame them. At least control them enough to find answers.

  Bianca set the pot of water on the stove and poked at the fire. Poor Jolyn. She had never known the warmth of a fire on nights such as this. Left to fend for herself, she had slept in alcoves and abandoned buildings. Bianca had tried to get Jolyn to sleep in her father’s alchemy room on the occasions that he was not there. But Jolyn always refused. “Your father is a strange bird,” she had said. “Besides, I’d rather not sleep among pickled animals and ground bones.”

  Bianca had first met Jolyn two years ago. It was Bianca’s habit to avoid Mass en route to her father’s room of alchemy. Instead, she’d wander the riverbank and study the plants. Bianca was happiest in the twilight just before dawn, and usually she was alone at that time of morning. However, this day, she watched a girl comb through the mud, barefoot in the late fall. Bianca waited until she made her way up to the road. “Here,” said Bianca, thrusting her shoes at the girl. “You need these more than I.”

  The girl took them and felt through to the hole in one toe. She waggled her fingers through the opening.

  Bianca shrugged.

  “What will you do?” asked the girl, looking down at Bianca’s stocking feet.

  “Never mind,” said Bianca.

  Another crack of thunder jarred her from her thoughts, and she looked around at her room. The board was strewn with bowls of forgotten and fermenting experiments. The shelves were better organized, but part of the copper tubing of her distillation apparatus still lay in a heap where Jolyn had pulled it down when she fell. Shards of glass lay half buried in the floor rush, and Bianca made a halfhearted attempt to pick them out. She collected the bowls on the table and the candles that had encircled Jolyn, and found the jar with remnants of the concoction she’d given her. Finally, she would brew the concoction and test it.

  As Bianca settled on a stool next to the furnace waiting for the water to boil, she recalled her observations about Jolyn’s circle of acquaintances.

  Mrs. Beldam. Eyes of cool pewter and the carriage of a woman of higher station, but time had darkened her teeth, and lines crisscrossed her face like hatch marks in a drawing. Jolyn had believed she honestly cared for her, but Bianca wasn’t so sure. Her obvious distraction at Cross Bones was not the picture of grief Bianca would have imagined. What did Beldam and Henley want from each other? The only thing she knew was that Henley supposedly pawned jewelry for her. What did they have in common? Jolyn. Mackney had said Henley wanted her ring. But why would Wynders speak with Henley? What did they want from each other? Bianca couldn’t imagine. But she knew what they had in common. And that, again, was Jolyn.

  Rain burst from the sky, pelting the windows and sluicing through wheel ruts in the lane outside. The red cat leapt from the rafters and leaned against Bianca, grateful for shelter and the fire’s warmth. She fed him a few crumbs of leftover cheese and absently stroked his striped back.

  Hopefully, Meddybemps would uncover something about Barke House. She hoped his many connections would prove useful and yield information about Mrs. Beldam and her past. She groaned, remembering his request for more rat poison. It was one concoction that sold predictably well. She checked her supply of apple seeds used in its recipe, thinking of all she needed to do and how her body ached with exhaustion. The fire crackled to a comforting glow. She turned her back to it while removing her sodden boots. Her muddy stockings sagged, and she peeled them off, exposing her cold white feet.

  She sat by the fire and studied the remains of the dried herbs she’d given Jolyn, sniffing them to detect anything out of the usual. Perhaps it was foolish to take so bold a chance. What if she died like Jolyn? Well, at least it would be in the privacy of her rent and not a public swinging.

  But a dead fool is no better than a live one, so she grabbed the flask of rancid goat milk and set it by, just in case. Just the smell of it caused an involuntary retch. She dumped the herbal concoction into the boiling water, stirring the brew and watching the steam curl into the air.

  Over time, Bianca had learned that Jolyn’s mother had been thrown in the Clink. Jolyn raked mud, trying to survive as best she could and save money to pay her mother’s debt to set her free. But her mother died within a month of her arrest, having taken ill with one of the gaol fevers that spread like fire. Jolyn had bitterly quipped that her mother had vowed to get out of prison one way or another. Unfortunately, Jolyn had no other family.

  Bianca thought back to her visit at Barke House, then tried to remember anything Jolyn had said about Pandy. Drawing a blank, she puzzled over Pandy’s colicky humour. She was swirling the bowl of tea and inhaling its steam when another flash of lightning lit her room. The clap of thunder struck disconcertingly near, causing her to start, spilling some of her drink. A burst of wind blew her door open, and it struck against the crate with unnerving force. Bianca set down her bowl and went to find some rope to secure the door.

  The rain poured inside, streaming from the eaves onto the threshold, soaking the floor. Bianca pushed aside the crate and leaned her weight against the door, lashing it shut. Finally she managed to keep it acceptably closed, though not without soaking herself in the process. Disgruntled, she tromped back to her stove and stripped off her bodice and kirtle, suspending them from a nearby beam to dry. She shivered in the chill and wrapped herself in a scratchy wool blanket, then went to the front door and shot the bolt.

  Pandy had flushed red at the mention of Jolyn’s suitor. Banes had witnessed Pandy’s flash of temper, too. If Wynders had once loved Pandy, that would explain her anger. The girl was jealous. Bianca sniffed. Only two things caused a woman to lose her head—the loss of a child and the loss of a lover to another woman.

  The wind continued to push against her alley door, worrying Bianca, but as she stared into the mesmerizing dance of flames, she recounted the few fragments of information she had been able to collect. Jolyn probably died from poisoning. Why would someone poison Jolyn? She could have died of natural cause, but that seemed unlikely. What could explain the trickle of purplish blood? Why would someone want her dead?

  The fact that Jolyn had moved into Barke House and soon won the attentions of Wynders, who showered her with gifts and fed her all manner of unusual fare, troubled Bianca. Were his intentions true and from the heart? Or was there a reason for his interest in Jolyn?

  Why did Jolyn become involved with Barke House? How did she come by it? Bianca racked her brain, trying to remember the details of Jolyn’s decision. She couldn’t remember and wondered if Jolyn had even told her. She blamed herself for being so preoccupied that she didn’t devote but half an ear to Jolyn’s stories.

  Bianca thought about the abrasions on Jolyn’s neck and her missing necklace. The muckraker accusing her of stealing a ring. The same muckraker talking to Mrs. Beldam at the funeral. The same muckraker talking to Wynders.

  Bianca rubbed her temples and took a sip of tea. She thought back to Pandy’s burst of anger. Banes had said she’d had Wynders’s attentions until Jolyn came along. Obviously Pandy was hurt and jealous. If anyone had reason to want Jolyn dead, it would be Pandy.

  The fire snapped, and the cat jumped in her lap. Bianca stared at the fire, rubbing its chin and imagining the faces of Pandy and the others as she thought. They seemed to float in the flames, their expressions appearing before her eyes. She concentrated on the feelings she’d gotten from their conversations, the unspoken words she’d perceived. She finished off the rest of the tea and set the bowl on the board. Like a shake to her shoulders, the sound of the bowl on the woo
d roused her from her thoughts. She picked it up and tipped it upside down. What had she done? Not a drop remained. She’d downed the remedy as casually as an ordinary cup of tea!

  Her hand went to her throat, and she glanced down at the cat sleeping contentedly on her lap. How long had it been between Jolyn’s last sip and the time she began to convulse? Bianca gulped and sat very still, her eyes wide with apprehension.

  About a year ago, Jolyn had prevented Bianca from being run through with a dagger one dark night on the river’s edge. It could have ended in a bad way, but Jolyn’s bravery and selfless sacrifice were a testament to her character and how much Bianca’s friendship meant to her. Bianca’s eyes welled with regret. Jolyn had saved her life. And she had been powerless to save Jolyn’s. For a moment, she let her tears flow, then squeezed her eyes shut and took a breath.

  If she should survive this, she would be more careful. She would be as selfless and brave as Jolyn had been. And she would look to Pandy as the murderer. There was no greater cause for murder than hatred steeped in jealousy.

  Bianca rubbed her stomach, wondering if her sudden nausea was her imagination. It had to be. She blinked and looked down at the cat. An active mind and imagination certainly had its downside. She spent far too much time in her head.

  Another flash of lightning lit her room, followed immediately by a boom of thunder. The horn pane of her window rattled, then crashed to the floor. Bianca sprang to her feet, nerves skidding down her spine. The rain poured through the window, pounding the sill and floor, the wind pushing it sideways. Cursing in aggravation, Bianca found a plank of wood and jammed it in place. But as she stepped away from the window, the alley door blew open with such violence that it was as if the devil himself had thrown it open.

  Bianca spun around.

  The plank of wood clattered to the floor.

  Again, sheets of rain poured into her rent, soaking the floor. But as she started for the window, a piercing pain surged through her skull, streaking and burning like a bolt of lightning. She staggered under its fierce and blinding force. The last thing she heard was the muffled sound of rain on the threshold.

  CHAPTER 21

  As clouds swept over the Queen Moon, a man pointed his bow toward the quarantined Cristofur and, shoving himself free of the quay, heaved on his oars. With the clouds came wind, and the sea chopped at the hull, sloshing vile water on his fine leather boots. His cape was beginning to smell like wet dog, but he pushed away his distaste and concentrated on getting to the ship without swamping the foundering curricle.

  His struggle caught the eye of the Rat Man floating in the shadow of the Cristofur, attracted there by the scent of vermin. The windfall he’d experienced when the ship first came to port had not lasted, but he was ever hopeful and always curious.

  He noted the fine quality of the man’s clothing, watched the plume in the man’s cap become sodden and lose its bounce. He wondered why such a man did not hire someone to row for him. A storm brewed in the west, and the Rat Man lifted his nose and parted his lips to taste the weather on his tongue. It would not be long before the torrent was upon them. Why would this man take such a chance?

  The Cristofur lowed and bobbed in the water, pulled at her cable and anchor like a restless colt. The few mates passed a flagon of gin on deck and sang bawdy sea shanties to pass the time. At least it kept the vermin away, or if not, the gin dulled their notice.

  A lamp burned in the captain’s quarters, where he and the first mate had taken refuge, drinking Spanish port. The door had been shut tight to keep out the stench emanating from the sleeping quarters, while the portholes were ajar as they preferred the reek of the Thames by comparison.

  The man grunted and cursed as he rowed toward the Cristofur. His skiff dipped and shimmied in the choppy drink. Water breached the sides, soaking the man and weighing down the curricle, making it even more unwieldy.

  The wraith chuckled at the man’s perseverance. The only thing that could possess such a man to be out on a night like this was money. Though sometimes love could. But mostly money.

  When the man neared the starboard side of the Cristofur, he called up to the drunken crew to put over a ladder. Finally, one of them stumbled forward and with some effort flung the brittle heap of rope over the side so that it hung tangled and twisted, completely useless. The man had to again yell for help. One by one the drunken mates appeared, some sneering, others taunting the merchant to figure it out for himself.

  After a fair amount of bellowing from both parties, the rope ladder was righted and the man tied off his skiff and began to climb.

  The Rat Man picked some gristle from between his pointed teeth and maneuvered beneath the captain’s quarters, watching for the man’s arrival. At a knock, the first mate released the hasp and allowed the man to enter. Setting formalities aside, the guest shrugged off his sodden cape, and the captain offered him drink as they discussed business. Numbers and tallies bored the specter, and he scanned the water for a snack before the man shifted the conversation more to his interest. The man reached inside his doublet, removed a leather purse, and plunked it in the center of the table. The ship’s lamp swung like a pendulum over it, illuminating first the captain’s face, the purse, and then the man.

  “I would wish this to be filled with our sovereign’s coin, but methinks it is not.”

  “I regret disappointing you. It contains rat poison.”

  “There are hardly any left to kill,” said the captain, throwing back another drink. “Most swam for land when they smelled it. Only the fattest and laziest have stayed. They are locked away where they can dine undisturbed.”

  “My interest is to see the Cristofur off-loaded. You’ve a crew to pay, and I’ve an owner eager to deal. It pleases him not to see his goods waylaid.”

  “Indeed,” said the captain. “It is not good business to pay a duty, then wait so long before collecting his profit. But we have the matter of a customs officer. Upon his inspection, we did not make a favorable impression.”

  “The poison should act swiftly enough. Bait the bodies and be done with it. We must get the Cristofur out of quarantine.”

  The captain leveled his gaze on the man. “I might remind you, there is the not so small matter of spreading contagion. We may well poison every last rat on board, but customs and medical protocol will require us to stay moored until the threat is over.” His face bore a cynical but calm expression. The sea had hardened the captain. He was slow to register emotion and laid a matter of import out as stoically as giving an order. “Or until every last one of us is dead and gnawed to the bone.”

  The man masked his aversion by straightening his spine and adjusting his ruff. “I shall not let it come to that. Time is not the only way to end a quarantine.”

  The captain snorted and shot a glance at the first mate.

  “Once the rats are dead, what shall we do with the bodies? We cannot make them disappear. We cannot dispose of them into the Thames. My crew would take issue with that. Besides, the customs officer is quite aware of the corpses.”

  “And you assume the customs officer cannot be bought?”

  The captain raised his drink to their guest. “I apologize, my good sir. I did not realize we were in such capable hands.”

  The man suppressed a slight smile and finished off his quaff. “Await the arrival of a dory where you may burn the bodies apart from your ship.”

  “The crew will like it not,” said the captain.

  “I need the Cristofur out of quarantine.”

  “Sailors are superstitious,” said the captain, “and that is blasphemous, sir.”

  The man waved his hand dismissively. “It is more scurrilous to let them rot on board. When a sailor longs to feel the earth under his feet, a small fire can be easily overlooked.”

  The captain appreciated this man’s cocksure attitude. Perhaps he would not regret this voyage after all. “Very good. We shall await the dory and a pile of oiled rags. And may I implore you to be quic
k on it. My crew grows restless, and I do not doubt they could scheme to make a float of my corpse and sail me safely to port.”

  The first drop of rain landed on the Rat Man’s nose as he drifted beneath the captain’s windows. A flash of lightning scorched the sky. The man watched the captain evenly and did not glance at the heavens and its warning. The Rat Man deemed the man an even greater fool than he had first thought.

  The crew hooted at the gathering sky, and their calls were soon drowned by a rumble of thunder. The captain looked out the porthole. “If there is nothing further, I suggest you not delay.” He smiled sardonically. “Unless you care to spend a night on board the Cristofur.”

  Disguising his haste, the man stood and bowed, offered formalities, and departed the cabin. He got halfway up the stairs before realizing he had forgotten his cape, returning to the cabin, and snatching it off the chair. The captain waited until the first mate had bolted the door, then opened another bottle of port.

  The Rat Man floated beyond the stern, listening to the crew mock the man shambling down the ladder. The clouds flickered from another streak of lightning, startling the man so that he missed a rung and slid down the rope in his attempt to hurry. His palms burned as the rope cut into them, and his desire to be done with the Cristofur distracted him from testing the bottom rungs. His foot reached down, and he applied his full weight, only to find the rung and the one below it sliced in half. He fell, tumbling into the curricle, narrowly missing a swim in the Thames, and landed in a heap, staring up at the sky and the jeering crew slinging insults.

  His head throbbing, he righted himself and fumbled with the bowline, releasing himself from the Cristofur and, he hoped, further indignation.

  He had only cleared the ship’s bow when the rain began to hammer. The crew dispersed, leaving the fate of the ship’s agent to the unkind river and temperamental sky.